‘If you had a secret, something that shouldn’t ever be shared, would you tell me?’ she asked. We’d been staring at an empty bottle of wine for the last 30 minutes and the Double Gloucester was hardening fast around the edges. Not wanting to commit either way, I remained quiet, giving my shoulders the slightest of shrugs. I knew that Susan abhorred a conversation vacuum; I just had to wait before the confession would trip from her lips.

We’d been here countless times before. Susan was a good friend, better than most; certainly more interested and nurturing that I ever am in return. But the structure of our monthly meetings was more than a little predictable. After exchanging family news (jobs dreary, husbands busy, kids well), we’d gossip fiendishly over a bottle of Chablis. Once the wine and the scandal had been poured away an awkward silence would descend. A period of shifting and sighing would then follow while Susan built up to whatever she needed to tell me so desperately. Past confessions included a crush on the man who slices her prosciutto, brief bouts of kleptomania, purging, et cetera. She never made such declarations in anticipation of counselling or advice. All that she required was the act of physical and emotional release. On this occasion, I decided to cut my agony short (watching someone on the very brink of speaking only to fall back is tedious), ‘Susan, whatever is the matter?’  

Inspired by the line “Had your friend a secret/Sorrow, shame or vice” from Kipling’s The Press.